Bad Habits
by Heath07
Summary: SequelCompanion to Maintaining the Lie. JimPam Okay, so they had an...incident. Things aren't going to be awkward at all.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Bad Habits (Part 1 of 3)

Rating: PG-13

Author: Heath07

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, etc.

Summary: Sequel/Companion to Maintaining the Lie. Pam/Jim Okay, so they had an...incident. Things aren't going to be awkward at all.

Notes: Most of the stuff about Scranton is inaccurate. Sorry to any Scrantonites. ;) There will be three parts to this story.

* * *

He's been dreading this since the moment they released him from the hospital. And, hey, say what you will about hospital food, but they do make a mean Jell-O. So, okay, he's had a full week to think things over...and over and over. Fine. There's pretty much been a continuous loop going on in his head. But come on? Can anyone blame him? There he was just minding his own broken-legged-bruised-and-cut-face business when out of nowhere Pam just lays one on him. And he _is_ a red-blooded American male and Pam _has_ been a feature in more than one of his fantasies, so what was he to do? He couldn't _not _kiss her back. He couldn't… Just…her scent and the feel of her soft skin against his hands, her weight bearing down on his chest and…other unmentionable parts, the little moan she let out when he caressed her back with only the tips of his fingers… 

So, yeah, things are going to be weird. He's not expecting anything less.

But, still, even a full week is not enough time to prepare him for this moment. This is like a _huge_ deal. There's no way to misinterpret what happened. It can't be labeled as an accident. You know, one of those little moments they sometimes have where their skin brushes against each other or their eyes lock and they don't look away right away. Those things can all be explained away. They're friends. But they crossed that line. And how do they come back from that? Can they?

Things will be clear when he walks through the doors and sees her again for the first time since…well, since whatever the hell it was that happened in his hospital bed that night a week ago. He'll know where they stand the moment he looks at her.

Jim's pretty sure there should be more to life than these strings of torture that he's inflicting upon himself. Perhaps he should take up a hobby. Maybe Dwight's dojo is still accepting students or Michael's improv class could use another, um, you know, improv-er.

If the cameras had been there, things would have been different. He knows this for a fact. Pam's different when the cameras are around. _They're_ different. It's subtle, but it's enough for him to notice.

And he can't change things now. He can't go back and undue the past or forget how it all felt, how she made him feel. He doesn't know how he's supposed to just come back from that and he's not totally convinced that it's possible. Suddenly Michael's infatuation with Jan doesn't seem all that pathetic and that makes him really _really_ sad.

Before he opens the door, he takes a big breath and prepares himself, wondering, idly, if Dwight's dojo breathing techniques really work.

When he finally gets the courage to lift his eyes to look at her, she's not at her desk, and for that he's thankful.

He's not an idiot. He knows things aren't just going to go back to normal. Things are going to be weird and he's prepared himself for said weirdness, but he's not looking forward to that first moment when she looks at him and he sees the guilt in her eyes.

She's not going to leave Roy for him. That was never an option. Roy isn't a bad guy, and Jim isn't stupid enough to think that Pam is some damsel in distress that needs to be rescued.

And, really, what happened…? It was just a fluke, a messed-up thing they did when doing anything else made no sense. It doesn't make it right.

It's not like she feels anything for him. It was just an impulsive mistake. It isn't like it means something, right?

Or maybe it does…and he isn't brave enough to find out.

And, Jesus Christ, he can't concentrate. He hasn't been able to since that night. All he can't think about is the softness of her skin and the raspy way she breathed his name against his lips, so quietly he wasn't sure if he had made it all up.

What he needs is a distraction. He fumbles with his coat and successfully manages to get it off and hung up before he sets his sights on Accounting.

Angela is at her desk, back straight, knees together, proper as always. She's diligently working, of course. Jim thinks, sometimes, that if Angela smiled, _really_ smiled, she might actually be pretty. But Angela never smiles and he's not invested enough to try to make her. She's proficient and neat and likes creepy posters with babies dressed to look like adults. She bakes cookies and brownies and little treats for everyone in the office, even if her "one per person" rule remains unflinchingly rigid, it still tells Jim that she wants to be liked, in some bizarre way. And there's something insanely human about that.

He hobbles over to her and blindly thumbs through his bag, while balancing his weight on his crutches, before pulling out a black book, setting it on her desk.

"Thanks, Angela. It, uh, helped immensely."

His voice sounds strained, tense. He clears his throat.

Angela's fingers stop their furious typing. She looks at the Bible and then up at him.

"Good. I hope you read the section I bookmarked. Exodus 20:2-17?"

He had, actually--when he was seven years old, in Sunday school.

"Uh, yeah, sure. The Ten Commandments are _so_ underrated."

"Yes, especially the tenth one. Although, six, seven, eight and nine could apply to you, too."

Angela closes her eyes and places her hand above her heart. Jim takes an uncertain step back, waiting for something truly disturbing to happen. And here he had thought that her affair with Dwight had mellowed her out some.

"Thou shall not covet thy neighbor's house; thou shall not covet thy neighbor's wife, or his manservant, or his maidservant, or his ox, or his ass, or anything that is thy neighbor's."

Okay, so maybe not.

"Thank you, Angela, uh, for that. I certainly shall not be coveting anyone's ass today."

He bites his cheek to stop a grin from forming.

"You can laugh at my beliefs, Jim, but it doesn't make what the two of you are doing any more moral."

Jim raises his eyebrows.

"And what exactly is it that I'm doing?"

She scowls.

"She's practically married."

"Who?"

Angela shakes her head and smiles that wry, knowing smile that makes her look so unflatteringly plain. She holds out the Bible for Jim once again.

"Maybe you should keep this."

"No, really, that's okay. Thanks."

He can feel Angela's eyes on him as he carefully makes his way back to his own desk and all he can think is that they're not married yet.

Not yet.

It echoes in his head. His closes his eyes as a wave of nausea passes through him.

And the worst part, he thinks, when he's back at his own desk and turns on his computer, is that he can't even share this with Pam—the one person that would truly appreciate the absurdness of Angela's reprimand.

* * *

When Dwight gets to the office, he makes it a point to "accidentally" knock Jim's cast with his umbrella. 

"That's not funny," he says, shrewdly.

"What?"

Jim looks down at his cast and his eyes immediately gravitate toward the little cartoon Pam drew.

"_That_," Dwight says, pointing with the tip if his umbrella. "It's despicable and rude and not even a good rendering. Who drew that?"

"Pam," Jim answers, quietly.

"_Pam_. I should have suspected. The two of you are like peas and cabbage."

"Peas and carrots, Dwight," Jim interjects.

"Whatever. It's the same thing. They're all vegetables."

"No, it's really not the same thing at all."

"Doesn't matter. It's still disrespectful. I did not put feathers in my hair or," he says, leading the umbrella to a lower part of the cast, "_there_. In fact, I could fire you for harassment."

"You can't fire me, Dwight," Jim says, wearily. Not five minutes with Dwight and he's all ready exhausted.

"We'll see," Dwight says, in a voice Jim guesses is supposed to be maniacal. He steeples his fingers and nods his head, a secret plan surely brewing.

Jim grits his jaw and continues to pour through the stack of messages that Pam must have compiled for him throughout the week. Her neat scrawl stares back at him, taunting him. His eyes quickly dart to Reception. No sign of Pam yet.

Dwight settles into his chair and pulls out a paper bag from his brief case. From the brown bag, Jim assumes is his lunch, he pulls out two hardboiled eggs and proceeds to very noisily and messily crack their shells and peel them. From his desk drawer he takes out salt and pepper shakers.

"Can't you do that in the kitchen?"

"No," he says, dismissively.

Jim ignores him as usual and plods along.

It's ten minutes later when Dwight deems it necessary to speak again.

"I hope you don't think you're going to get special treatment just because you have that thing on your leg."

"Thanks, Dwight."

"I just think you should know that in your absence Michael put me in charge of your accounts and you have some very rude clients."

Jim hangs his head. This is the last thing he needs today.

"What did you do, Dwight?"

"My job. This is a work environment and I don't think that any idle time should not be wasted."

"So, you're saying we should waste time at work?"

"No, _Jim_. I'm saying that you and your clients have a thing or two to learn about business. I informed them of that and now I'm informing you."

"Great. So I guess I'll be phoning a lot of people to apologize for you…being you."

"Uh, excuse me, _Jim_. You should just be grateful that someone was here to pick up your slack."

"Right. Grateful. Sure."

If Dwight hadn't confiscated Jim's stapler a few months back, he would use it right now to staple Dwight's bottom lip over his head.

* * *

More and more people arrive for the day, until the office is almost full. They stop by his desk and tell him they're glad to see him and that he's looking well. Creed asks if he knows when the tall guy that used to have his desk is coming back. Jim doesn't even bother to correct him. Kelly goes into a five minute meltdown about strappy sandals and bridal magazines and then asks if he'll find out if Ryan is seeing someone else. 

"Jimbalya! What's up? What's happening?" Michael says, before he's even made it around the corner.

His spirits are high, but Jim knows that Michael has been worried--if the fifteen messages a day were any indication. He's not really sure if his concern is really for his well-being or the part he played in the accident. In the days following the accident, as word got out, there was talk of a suspension. As soon as corporate found out he wasn't planning on suing the company, _they_ stopped calling

"Nothin'."

Jim turns in his chair, aware the whole office is tuned in to watch Michael make an ass out of himself.

"So, how's the…?"

"Yeah, the leg's healing nicely," Jim says, hand on his leg for emphasis.

"Good, good. So, no need to sue, right?" Michael says, tentatively, and Jim can see the vulnerability in his eyes.

"I'm not going to sue you, Michael."

The instant relief is almost comical. At least, it would be, if he didn't have the injuries as proof positive that this job is bad for his health. It used to be just a mental thing, but now he's actually _physically_ been hurt working for Dunder-Mifflin. Still, it's not Michael's fault that he's such an idiot. Well, okay, so it is, but Jim's not the suing kind.

"Wow, that's… I wasn't even concerned about that. I can't believe you even brought that up… I'm just filled up with worry about my good buddy, Jim."

Jim catches Michael's reactionary shot to the camera. It's not easy admitting that he does feel a little sorry for Michael sometimes. Of course, if he waits it out a good five minutes, he generally screws up again and everything goes back to the status quo.

"So, did you get the thing?"

The camera zooms in, getting a tight shot of Jim.

"Oh, um, yeah. Thanks for the, uh, flowers. They really cheered me up."

"Well, it's the least I could do for my pal, Jim. Well guess I better get to work. Lots to do. Lots to do," Michael says, quirking his eyebrows and smiling really wide at the camera.

Michael enters his office and closes the door behind him.

Jim looks to his right and frowns. Pam still hasn't shown up.

* * *

It's ten o'clock before Pam makes it into work. Jim knows she sees him when he hears her surprised "oh." He doesn't get up from his seat and she doesn't approach him. 

She makes herself look busy by shuffling around papers. After a moment, she pulls out a pink highlighter—the one they used to make hearts on all of Dwight's business cards and the framed World Anime Expo 2002 poster he keeps tucked away in his bottom desk drawer. He didn't notice it for two full weeks, but the anticipation was well worth Dwight's reaction. From the corner of his eye, he sees her look at the highlighter as if just realizing she's holding it in her hand and then she looks at him. It hurts him more than he ever realized it would to see her and to know how different things will be from now on.

At lunch, he gets his ham and cheese sandwich from the fridge and eats it at his desk, while checking his missed calls and e-mails from the previous week. It's easy to avoid Pam when he has so much to catch up on.

There's a meeting at three. In the conference room, he sits between Stanley and Kevin, listening to their breathing while trying to block out Dwight and Michael's argument about who should start the meeting. There's a weird noise coming from Stanley. It's a slow whirring sound like his nose is about to take flight. Jim knows that Stanley's been having an awful time with his blocked nasal passages—it is allergy season, after all, according to Dwight—and he tries his hardest not to smile.

Pam has taken the seat directly behind Stanley, beside Phyllis. He can hear her suppressed giggles and in a moment of weakness he turns his head to look at her. She catches his eyes and he immediately turns back around, his pulse racing fast, making him feel a little dizzy.

For the rest of the meeting, he forces himself to focus on the front of the room, even when Dwight lifts his shirt to highlight a part of his speech about Marketing Strategies. How the two are related he's not really sure. He tunes out after Michael brings in his guitar and sings a collection of George Michael's Greatest Hits, badly.

Michael tells him to go home early and when Pam makes a trip to the bathroom, he does just that.

They didn't talk the whole day.

When he goes home, he eats leftover Mac n' Cheese his roommate, Mark, left in the fridge and, after taking his pain pills, passes out in his clothes, watching TV.

* * *

He thinks it should somehow feel less like a chore to get up in the morning and go into work. It should get easier. 

It hasn't.

It's been a week and a half since he's been back and the most he's said to Pam is a few words. An "excuse me" when he was trying to get coffee one morning and a "hi" when they got stuck coming up in the elevator together.

He hates the way she's started to look at him.

He hates that it's so hard.

He hates that he still wants her.

After everything, he still wants to somehow work things out. He just doesn't know how.

And he's just so…so…confused.

"Do you need help or something?"

"Huh?"

He's startled enough that she's standing in front of him, speaking to _him_, that he almost falls out of his chair.

"You look… I don't know… Pitiful?"

"Gee, thanks."

"Did Dwight kick your puppy or something?"

She's trying to be funny. She's trying to do…whatever it is that they do, to cheer each other up. It's not working. Even the most clever line won't work on him now, because she's standing too close and he can smell that perfume she always wears and feel her warmth, begging him to just let it go. Just forget what happened and be her friend. Because she needs him to be and he needs to be. But he can't…even though he _really_ wants to. It still hurts too much.

"I have to… Uh…go."

"Oh."

It's hard to be coordinated with the crutches, but he manages to get himself up and away from her as fast as his body allows.

There aren't many places to hide in the office. There aren't many places the cameras don't follow close behind, either. But the bathroom is usually a safe haven. So, it's there that he makes his great escape. He leans against the door and lets his head fall back against it none-too-gently.

"Idiot," he chastises himself, quietly.

After a deep breath, he sets his sites on the urinal, thankful for the peace and quiet the bathroom provides.

He's just gotten his zipper about halfway done up when the door bursts open and slams closed behind him.

"I hate this!"

Looking over his shoulder, he's only mildly surprised to see Pam, leaning against the door, holding out the camera and boom operators, Luke and Brian. The door clicks shut and she locks it with a satisfied smile. She's half out-of-breath and her hair is a little mussed and she's looking at him like _he_ just kicked her puppy.

"Whoa, Pam. Men's room," he says, flushing for emphasis.

"I know," she says, and looks around—anywhere but at him. "But…it's the only place we could be alone."

He quirks an eyebrow, intrigued.

"O-kay."

"We have to talk."

She says it just like that. Flat. Like there is no room to argue. And the determination on her face makes him keep his lips sealed.

"I can't take it any more… All this…silence. I mean, it's so weird. And, you! You won't even look at me anymore. And, if you do, it's with these…these, I don't know…these eyes, you know?"

He waits a beat, making sure it's okay for him to talk now.

"I appreciate that, Pam, I do. Me, looking at you with my eyes and all… But, I'm kinda… I mean, I'm a little busy here, if you hadn't noticed."

And then she does notice. He's still rooted in front of the urinal with a hand braced against the wall so he won't fall down. The crutches he's been using to get around with are leaning against the sink and he hasn't moved since she invaded his privacy.

"Oh. Oh, yeah. Uh, sorry about that. Do you need help or something?"

Jim coughs.

It's not his imagination that her cheeks turn a very dark shade of red.

"Okay, forget I just said that. I didn't mean--"

Jim actually smiles and bows his head, a little embarrassed. "S'okay," he says, "could you just…?"

"Oh, yeah, sure."

She turns around and Jim does up his fly. He stumbles to the sink to wash his hands and slowly, methodically, rinses the soap from his fingers.

"What do you…I mean, what do you want to talk about?"

He's looking at her through the mirror, not yet brave enough for a face-to-face confrontation. She has all ready turned back around and he can feel her eyes on the back of his neck.

"Jim."

"What?"

There is a long silence that follows and for a second he wonders if she's even going to continue.

"I'm sorry, okay?"

"For what?"

She sighs.

"Don't do that. You know what I'm talking about."

"Oh, _that._"

"Yeah, _that_."

"Don't worry about it. It was my fault," he says, brushing it off.

"No. No, I…it was me. I was the aggressor. I shouldn't have…"

He drops his eyes. The more she reminds him it was a mistake, the less he can fantasize about it actually meaning something.

"I didn't stop you."

"You did, though."

He nods because no matter what he says, it's not going to come out right and he has a bigger chance of making it out of this with some dignity intact if he just keeps his mouth shut.

"I, um… I don't know what came over me." She pushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear and rolls her eyes. "I'm not… I mean, I'm not usually so…forceful."

"Yeah, you did kind of attack me, Beesley."

"What!"

He smiles. Maybe he's just a sucker, a sentimental sap that is easily swayed, but he cannot _not_ have Pam in his life. Even if they'll only ever be friends. He'll take it. The alternative is much worse.

"Sorry. Just had to see the look on your face."

"Funny. So, look, can we just forget about this? Pretend…I don't know, like it never happened?"

"Yeah. Yeah, sure. It never happened."

It'll be easy, he thinks. He's gotten good at pretending.

Her smile is magic, lighting up the room. She even looks beautiful in the fucking men's room. And she actually claps. Claps like a kindergartener, just once and very impulsive, but _so_ Pam. It makes his chest feel very heavy, like his ribs are being crushed, like he can't breathe.

"Okay, good. Great. Um, so, I'm just going to…go. I'd hate to see what would happen if Dwight found me in here. It's bad enough that Angela has been giving me this death glare ever since--"

She shakes her head and doesn't continue.

They stand there facing each other, just breathing. A minute passes before Pam gets fidgety and grabs a hold of her necklace. She brings it up to her mouth and rests it on her lower lip, twirling the tiny charm in her fingers. All of this is done unconsciously, of course. Jim knows her well enough to know that she doesn't just do these things to drive him crazy. Even though it does. Drive him crazy, that is. Jesus, he would probably do anything, say anything, to be those links of gold across her lips right now. He's such a fucking sap! He shifts and forces himself to look away.

"It's just odd," she says, and her voice is magnified by the acoustics in the bathroom, "how you think one thing and it turns out to be something completely different, you know?"

Jim's gaze shifts back to hers slowly.

She drops the necklace and shakes her head.

"Well, anyway. See you out there?"

"Sure."

Okay, so now that they got that out of the way, they can just go back to how they were before. They can play practical jokes and trade longing glances and share little glimpses into each other's lives. Right, that'll make things easier. Jim's not sure what it would feel like to get shot, but he's pretty damn sure it wouldn't be as painful as this.

* * *

The next day when he walks into the office, he does stop to say hello to Pam and every time she passes his desk, she gives him a reassuring smile. 

It's one of those days when everything irritates him. Dwight's anal-retentiveness, Angela and Oscar's ongoing battle with the thermometer, Kelly's insistent chattering, the smell of Creed's mung beans, even Pam's kindness starts to bother him. It's too much for him to take. He just wants to go home, crawl into bed, bury himself in his covers and not wake up until the morning.

He's not really sure what brought on his mood, but he knows it has something to do with all this pretending he's been doing lately. Fed-up is an understatement.

His face has started to heal, but he finds it easier to hide behind the bruises. It's certainly easier to avoid confrontation, because who would hit a guy that's already down on his luck? Roy doesn't seem to know anything about that night in the hospital, but he's not sure how long that will last. Pam doesn't make it a habit of keeping secrets from him. When word gets out (if it gets out) he's not really sure how that will change things, but he knows the waiting is killing him.

There used to be a vicious dog that lived two doors down from the house he grew up in. Every morning on his way to school, he'd walk two blocks out of his way to avoid him. It worked out well, until one day that dog got loose and the inevitable happened.

It's not the same thing, not really. And maybe it's a bad analogy, but a part of him knows the inevitable is going to happen and when it does, it's going to hurt like hell.

Near the end of the day, he stretches out his legs, maneuvering his foot so the side of it faces Michael's office and consequently the rest of him faces Pam's desk.

The pain in his leg comes and goes. Sometimes by the end of the workday it throbs so badly he can barely stand. Today there is just a dull ache, but he unconsciously grits his jaw as he flexes his toes.

"Leg sore?"

"What?" he says, looking up at her, where she's perched behind her desk.

Pam's expression is open and her eyes are wide. They dart to his cast.

"Oh. Oh, no. Just playing it up so Michael will let me go early. He still feels pretty bad about running me over, and I figured I better milk it while I still can, since I get the cast off pretty soon."

"Nice."

She smiles and so does he.

"Yeah, I figure once it's off, the reminder's gone and things will pretty much go back to normal."

Her smile falters and he can no longer read the look on her face.

He actually can't wait to get the cast off because Michael's not the only one haunted by it. To Jim, all he sees when he looks at it is the dashed dreams of a worthy artist and a night that, for all intents and purposes, was one of the best and worst of his life.

Corporate announces a new position opening up in the Scranton branch to hopefully boost sales and alleviate the need for downsizing. Josh, the manager over at Stamford has already implemented it and with such great success they thought it would be a good idea to do a trial run here. Jim isn't particularly interested, but Michael has hinted once or twice that he would be perfect for it. There isn't a lot more responsibility for a somewhat sizable pay increase and it would sort of make him Dwight's superior and that's just tempting enough for Jim to fill out an application.

Sometimes Jim lets other people believe they are smarter than him. He asks questions for which he already knows the answers. He's stopped thinking about why he does these things. Maybe it's because it's easier. Easier to allow people to think he's suited for his position at Dunder-Mifflin than for them to know that he's better than this job and this town. Not that he thinks that, but Pam told him that once and she's just not a very good liar.

Well, unless she's lying to herself.

It's a new day. A new start. He's decided that he's just going to have to get over Pam if he wants to get on with his life. He can't run away from the problem anymore, he must confront it head-on and that means going back to being Pam's friend and ignoring all the adorable things she does and plunging forward.

Scratch that. A guy getting over a girl does not think of her, or anything she does, as adorable.

* * *

Pam stops by his desk on her way to the fax machine, resting on the corner of it and smiling brightly at him. 

"So, anything interesting happened to you lately?"

He stretches out his arms and folds his hands behind his head.

"Uh, no, not really. I keep having this reoccurring dream, though."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "It's about sharks."

"Sharks?" she asks, leaning in, as if they're sharing some great secret.

"Yeah, I, like, go to this pet store and buy this shark—not a big one, but one about a foot long—and then when I get it home and put it in its tank, it just, like, dies, but I keep going back to the store determined that the next shark will live. The thing is it's like I'm buying the exact same shark every time. I mean, I'm no shark expert, but I don't think they look exactly the same, you know? Weird, huh?"

"Uh, ye-ah. I think you've been spending _way_ too much time with Dwight."

"You injure me, Pam. Right here," he says, indicating his chest where his heart is beating fiercely under his fingertips.

She walks away smiling and he's smiling too, but it quickly fades.

"Here," Pam says and drops a folded paper on his desk.

"What's this?"

"I looked up sharks in this, like, dream journal book I have at home… Anyway, read it, Halpert."

"Uh, thanks."

He can't figure out what stuns him more, the fact that Pam has a book about dreams or the fact that she consciously went out of her way to find out what his dreams mean.

Jim's not sure if he wants to read the note or not. He does open it, though, when Pam looks his way. Scanning it quickly, he gathers that it's not particularly good to be dreaming of sharks, except that dead sharks seem to be okay. Huh. Odd. Screw shark conservation!

He skips down to the bottom where, circled in red ink, is the word "promotion" with a question mark and a happy face. But not an ordinary, stick-person happy face, but a Pam original--one with detailed features and even little ears that stick out at the sides and look suspiciously like his own. He shakes his head and smiles, despite himself, stuffing the paper into his pocket as Dwight approaches.

"What was that?"

"What?" he says, pretending to be oblivious. Toying with Dwight never gets old.

"That _letter_."

"Nothing. It's private."

"Who gave it to you? Is it from Michael? Corporate? Are you getting the promotion? Tell me now, Jim!"

It's been like this for about a week now--Dwight constantly hanging around, always hovering over his shoulder, waiting to find out who was getting the "big promotion." It makes him sad, really. That Dwight has so little to look forward to and that he, himself, has nothing better to do than drive Dwight crazy with false information about the promotion, his interview, and what the job entails.

"It's nothing, Dwight," he says, rubbing his eyes. "I promise you'll be the first person I tell when I get the job."

"Thank you, Jim, that means—wait a minute. Who says you're getting the job? What have you heard?"

* * *

They're eating lunch together for the first time in a very long time. And, yeah, things are pretty much the full spectrum of weird. When Pam had asked if she could have his napkin, he'd knocked over his can of grape soda, spilling the sticky liquid all down his pants, because their hands had touched. Like, skin-on-skin, touched. 

So, now he has a purple stain on the crotch of his pants and Pam has insisted on calling him Grimace—_you know, because Grimace is purple and clumsy, duh!_--for the last ten minutes. And, like, what the hell _is _Grimace, anyway?

The teasing reflects how far they've come. They're almost back in that "comfort zone" they've spent the last three years occupying.

Yeah. So that's great.

When all the carrots are gone and they've lost interest in the game of tic-tac-toe Pam started, Jim picks up a gossip magazine Phyllis left in the lunchroom. It's at least six months old. He thumbs through the pages, lazily.

"Hey, how come no one told me Jessica and Nick broke up?" he says, feigning shock.

"Who?" she says and takes a sip of her water.

"Pam, come on! Do you, like, _ever_ watch TV?"

She laughs.

"Apparently, not as much as you."

"Hmm. See if I ever fill you in on what happened on Deal or No Deal again," he says, trying not to smile, even though he does a very bad job of it. It's almost impossible _not _to smile when he's around Pam. He is _so_ lame.

"Oh, the tragedy! I don't even get that show anyway," she says, pushing on his side and making the cutest scrunched-up face.

"Wait, what is that all about?"

"What?" she says, self-consciously running her tongue over her teeth and bringing her hand to her mouth.

"What was that, just now? What were you just doing?"

"When?"

"Just now."

"Oh, you mean when I squidged you?"

"Squidged? Is that even English?"

"Yes. Squidge, squidged, squidging. Don't you remember? It's that word we made up for when you squint and nudge someone at the same time."

Jim rolls his eyes, smiling.

"Oh. Oh, right. Squidging, how could I forget?"

"It's all the reality TV going to your brain," she says and looks pointedly at the camera. "Maybe you should start watching the news."

"I only watch fake news."

"It shows."

"Ouch."

They're looking each other in the eyes and Pam's not looking away, like it's a dare. It feels a little too intense and he coughs and turns his head.

So that whole "comfort zone" thing has pretty much taken over Jim's life again. Every time he tries to take a step back, he just gets sucked back in.

He's half-convinced that this is all just one big joke, just one big prank that some higher power is pulling on him. Because he has this lousy job and this crush and that's all he really has. Sure, sometimes there's poker, the bar and the dating scene to break up the monotony of the day, but mostly those things leave him feeling empty. It's when he's with Pam that he truly feels alive. And sometimes that scares him.

Pam's at his desk—more accurately, sitting _on_ his desk—swinging her foot back and forth, sometimes just gracing his thigh with the heel of her very-white tennis shoe and rearranging all the bobble-heads on Dwight's desk.

Jim tries to concentrate on their game of solitaire that Pam gave up playing five minutes ago, but she's too close and too distracting for him to do anything substantial.

He can feel her eyes dart from him to the computer screen. "Jackoffqueen," she mumbles

"What?"

She's giggling. He's pretty sure she might have just said something dirty.

"I'm _so_ bored. Even solitaire isn't cutting it anymore," she says, sighing.

He swivels around in his chair and looks to make sure everyone else in the office is not listening. Dwight is still in Michael's office going over some details about another elaborate party that corporate won't be paying for.

He motions for her to come closer.

"I might have a solution for that, but it requires precision and an evil mind. I will not lead the innocent into a mission such as this. Think you can handle it?"

"What are you talking about?" she says, excited.

"Office pranks, Pam. On our favourite volunteer Sheriff's Deputy. "

Her eyes light up and she smiles slyly.

"Dwight."

"Obviously. You in?"

"Definitely!"

A trip to the local grocery store, a fake note for Dwight sending him on a fake errand for Michael and they're in business. The plan is simple: simply remove the mouthpiece from Dwight's phone, place half a head of garlic (cut open for best results), replace mouthpiece and wait.

"So the garlic is in place, now all we need to do is sit and wait for him to get a phone call. Wait, what are you doing?"

He looks at her curiously. She looks back through a veil of eyelashes and smirks.

"Cutting Dwight's roll of tape into half inch pieces, so that every time he tries to use it, it keeps breaking before he can get a decent sized piece."

He looks at her and even lit by the crappy fluorescents, she looks beautiful. And her mind…she just creates these completely devious plans that always manage to top whatever he's come up with... She really is amazing.

"That's brilliant!"

"I know," she says, smirking.

He rolls his eyes and returns her high five.

"Humble, too."

"Suck it, Halpert."

So he has this lousy job and this crush…and maybe that's all he really needs.

* * *

Jim and Pam take their morning break together, like any other morning. Unfortunately, there is only one package of Skittles left in the vending machine. And with two hungry co-workers vying for the same awesome snack, there is only one way to settle their differences: competition. 

Thus, the first annual Dare or be Square Tournament is born. (Name of competition to be changed as soon as they think of something less lame.)

So far the pranks have been easy to accomplish because the recipients have been previous victims. But, this? No, this is going way too far.

Pam's is already giddy with her impending victory, but Jim is determined to not let this conquer him.

"Just do it," Pam taunts, tugging on his shirtsleeve.

"This is all very sixth grade of you," he scolds.

Pam slaps her hand on her desk and her eyes are wide with mirth.

"Oh, my God! You're afraid of him, aren't you?"

Isn't that obvious by now? Jim raises his eyebrows.

"Uh, yeah. Did you hear the way he yelled at Ryan?"

Pam shakes her head and grabs the bag from her desk, poised to rip open the plastic.

"Fine, forfeit. The Skittle are mine!"

"Hold on," Jim says, and covers her hand.

It's warm and soft…and what the hell is he doing? He's _such_ a masochist! They both stop for a second and Jim nervously peels the bag out of her hand.

"Slow down, buckaroo."

"Buckaroo?"

He clears his throat.

"Been watchin' a lot of Westerns lately."

"Sure," she says, not even bothering to hide her laughter.

"Okay, settle down, little lady," he says, in a very bad John Wayne impersonation.

"Just admit defeat and _maybe_ I'll let you have one of _my_ tasty Skittles."

"I didn't say I wouldn't do it. Just, give me a minute…to, you know…"

"Work up the courage?"

"No."

"Stop being a girl?"

Jim's mouth contracts and he suppresses a smile.

"You do realize you're a girl, right?"

"Yeah, but I'm insulting _your_ manhood."

He rolls his eyes.

"Fine."

"Go ahead," she says, making a sweeping motion indicating that the row of desks aren't going to come to him, so get to walking.

"Going."

Jim rolls up his sleeves and cracks his knuckles.

"Stop stalling."

He looks at Pam and shakes his head.

"_So_ pushy."

He can feel her eyes on him the entire sixteen and a half steps it takes to approach Stanley's desk. He looks over his shoulder and she's giving him a thumb's up and an encouraging smile.

Stanley has a pencil in one of his hands and the other is splayed out on his desk, holding the pages of one of his crossword books open.

Jim's never really had the patience for crossword puzzles. But here's one that he would probably get: Office worker's name with a death wish, three letters.

"Uh, Stanley?"

Stanley does not acknowledge Jim standing right beside him instead he remains fixated on the puzzle in front of him.

"What do you want? I am _trying_ to get some work done."

Jim starts gesticulating wildly with his hands, realizing that he doesn't want Stanley to help him find his mind the way he tried to help Ryan. Because Stanley might actually _literally_ help him find his mind after this...as in, bash in his skull to find it.

"Yeah, no, I totally respect that. It's just…"

"Just what?" he says, finally looking up. The eyes that meet Jim's are big and clouded with boredom.

Jim looks over his shoulder at Pam, whose hand is hovering over the very last bag of fruity goodness, otherwise known as Skittles. Oh, how she taunts him!

He takes a deep breath.

"Pardon me, sir, but do you have any Grey Poupon?" Jim says in his best English accent.

"Is that _supposed_ to be funny?"

Jim shakes his head very fast. He bites down the urge to call Stanley sir or salute him or something.

"Uh…see, Pam and I, we're—Okay, see, there's only one bag of Skittles left and that's pretty valuable merchandise, so-- You know, I'm sensing you really don't care. Am I right?"

Jim's met with a blank stare.

A few seconds tick by and…yep, still nothing.

Jim slowly walks back to reception, aware that he's just made a potentially deadly mistake.

"Yeah, so I think Stanley may kill me…or at least maim me just enough so I'm unrecognizable."

"That was _so_ worthy of the last bag of Skittles. The look on his face! The look on _your_ face! Congratulations!" she says, presenting him with the brightly coloured candy like it's a trophy.

"Let's share."

"But you won, fair and square," she says, surprised.

He shrugs his shoulders.

"Yeah, but you got Dwight to make a citizen's arrest on himself! I'm still not really sure how that one works, but what the hell, it was awesome! Not to mention the whole air guitar thing with Creed. Now _that_, my friend, is worth at least ten packages of original Skittles and one package of tropical flavoured Skittles," he says, sliding the bag toward her.

"Yes," she says, leaning forward and pushing the bag back toward him, "but you also got Dwight to believe he was colourblind and was actually wearing two different coloured socks."

"Well, I had to top what you did to Michael," he says, smiling. "I mean, whispering all his messages to make him think he was losing his hearing? That's pure genius right there."

"You make some good points. Okay, what do you say we split it?"

"That's what I'm saying."

He meets her eye and they both break out huge smiles, full teeth and everything.

This works out best for them, anyway. Jim always ends up giving Pam the yellow ones anyway because he knows they're her favourite and he's not especially fond of them. The green ones are his favourite. He always saves those ones for last. Not that he expects Pam to remember that. It's not like she takes note of all his likes and dislikes and stores them in her head in a special _hypothetical_ Jim file, the way he does. She's not a total freak like he apparently is.

Pam opens the bag and goes about separating them out into colours. While she's busy, he looks back at Stanley, relieved that he's resumed working on his crossword puzzle and is not planning Jim's untimely demise.

"Here," she says, pushing a fistful of candy at him. She's taken all the yellow and half of the other colours. Or, wait, not all of the colours. Jim inspects his pile and then hers again. She's given him all the green.

He concentrates on the back of her head because she's looking down and for some reason something tells him that she's doing it on purpose. But then reality kicks in and he chastises himself. He has to stop looking for things that clearly are not there.

"I love the green ones," he says and, breaking his usual habit, pops one into his mouth.

When Pam looks at him, a small impish smile on her face, his stomach flips.

"I know."

He looks down at his pile and back at her.

Okay, so he's been fooling himself. He does need more than this lousy job and this far from innocent crush. He needs to get a life.

* * *

He's tried to avoid going to her desk like usual, even though she has the really good kind of jellybeans out in the community bowl, just waiting for him. He remains strong and avoids temptation. It's Pam that interrupts him while he's working…or, at least, pretending he's working. 

"Everyone's going out for drinks tonight. You're coming, right?"

She says it casual, but there's an undertone to her voice that he can't quite decipher.

"Tonight? No, I can't."

"Really? Why not?" she says genuinely interested.

Jim shifts in his chair.

"I've…got a date."

"Oh," she says, nodding.

He avoids eye contact and straightens his tie.

"Yeah, so…"

"Is it Katy?"

"Uh, no. Actually, Ryan's been seeing her, I think."

"And that doesn't bother you?" she asks, a little defensive.

"Um, not really," he says, shrugging. "I think I went out with her for the wrong reasons, anyway."

Jim continues to avoid making eye contact. It's safer.

"So, if it's not Katy, who is it?"

"It's…someone else." Jim takes a deep breath and scratches his neck. "It's someone I met recently. It's a new thing. I would have told you, but things have been--"

"Weird. Right. So, um, where did you two meet?"

"Actually, it's funny. She works at the hospital. Took my cast off, actually."

"Oh. That's…neat."

"Yeah, I dunno. We just got to talking and… Anyway, she's pretty cool."

"That's great. Really great. I'm happy for you."

He wonders if it's just his mind playing tricks on him, but she doesn't exactly sound sincere.

"Thanks," he says, but she's already walking away.

He was going to tell her.

He was.

But every time he tried to, something came up. And, okay, so maybe he was waiting for a moment like this to test the waters, just to see where they stood. But instead of making things clear, everything is even more muddled and complicated than before.

* * *

TBC... 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Bad Habits (2/3)

Rating: PG-13

Author: Heath07

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, etc.

Summary: Sequel/Companion to Maintaining the Lie. Pam/Jim What happens after?

Notes: Most of the stuff about Scranton is inaccurate. Sorry to any Scrantonites.

**Part 2**

* * *

****

Most of the time the days pass so slowly it's hard to see when change happens. It's an eventual progression that just sort of sneaks up on you out of nowhere. That's kind of what Jim and Pam's friendship was like, a slow build-up that, when they looked back, they couldn't really ever determine how it had begun. And when it came crumbling down, Jim never thought they would be able to build it back up to what it was. But then something happened. He just…stopped. Stopped overanalyzing and pining and waiting for the right time to say something. He moved on.

At least that's what he thought...

So, if he is this evolved person that he claims to be…why does he still care so deeply?

The wedding is called off…or postponed or…whatever. The wedding in question, of course, being Pam and Roy's. It's a couple of months before the date that Roy drunkenly announced on the Booze Cruise. Jim's not sure whether he's relieved or annoyed.

Pam has been really down lately. There's something in her eyes every time he looks at her, but he can't quite pinpoint what it is.

They've made it a habit not to talk about Roy or any of the girls he sees. Not that there have been that many. His relationships have a tendency to fizzle out before they ever really get going. So, okay, there have been a few girls. But now there's one girl. And she's great. Really great. Her name is Jennifer—a simple ordinary name. She goes by Jen, which is even simpler. So, it's cool. They both have the whole shortened name thing going for them. Uh, not unlike a certain receptionist that he is _totally_ over.

And he can see it all now, Jim and Jen, super-couple of the year. Because that's how people will start to refer to them until their two names become synonymous and you can't mention one without the other. Jim and Jen. That's them.

They're perfect for each other. It's kismet, really.

So, Jen is a really down-to-earth, caring person. She's great, really. She comes from a big family, has a really awesome sense of humour... She has this thing about sunblock... She's always applying it and putting it on him. It should bother him, but it never does. It just makes him smile.

They're a good match, but something… He can see himself falling in love with her.

He can _see_ it, but he can't _feel_ it.

The conversation is great. The sex is great. Even the quiet moments are great. They could have a good future, but…

It all comes back to the idea that he's got Pam on such a high pedestal, no one else can possibly measure up.

Sometimes Jim thinks he shouldn't have to work so hard to convince himself he's happy.

Pam has told him that he's different when he talks to her…when he talks _about_ her. He hasn't really noticed. Last night, everyone in the office went out for drinks and he introduced Jen to the gang. Pam didn't talk to him for the rest of the night. And the whole time he had a sick feeling in his stomach, like he felt guilty…like he was somehow cheating on Pam and the fantasy life he'd created in his head.

This morning when he got to work, she gave him the cold shoulder. And then at lunch, she sent him a dirty look and ate at her desk.

He's not sure what he did, specifically, but he knows that Pam knows now how serious he is about this new relationship. She knows they're more than just dating, that they've been intimate. You kiss someone differently after you have been with them in that way... And it didn't help that Kevin and the warehouse guys kept giving him high fives all night and none-too-discreetly espousing how hot his date looked and started rumours when they both just so happened to need to use the bathroom and payphone at the same time. It wasn't his fault the battery in his cell died or that the bathroom and phone were in the same general vicinity. Nothing happened, but the word was already out there. Then Pam caught Jim kissing Jen against the door of his car while she waited for Roy to pull around with the truck and pick her up.

And, okay, so maybe he liked the idea that Pam was a little jealous. And maybe he feels a little guilty for using Jen like that. And maybe he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing anymore!

So that's why he finds himself trapped in the conference room with Pam staring up at him and asking questions. Questions she doesn't have the right to ask. Questions he doesn't want to answer.

"Did you…?"

"Did I what?"

"Sleep with her," she says quietly, staring at the floor, like looking him in the eye is something she's never done before…like it's painful.

"Pam."

Her voice is hoarse.

"I just think it's totally-- I mean the bathroom at Chili's, Jim?"

His heart is beating too fast in his chest for it to be normal. And he can feel the anger wrapping around him, feel it building to a crescendo.

"I can't believe you would think that about me!" he flings back, his eyes penetrating hers.

She looks away.

"I don't. I don't know why-- It's just Roy and those guys… Forget it; it's none of my business."

He's angry. Really, truly, angry.

Maybe it's the mention of Roy or her apparent horrible opinion of him, but he can't just stand there and take it anymore.

"You're right, it's not. I mean, I don't ask you if you and Roy…" He rolls his eyes and lets his hand rest on the back of one of the chairs. He needs something stable to keep him upright. "I mean, obviously…so I don't. And what I _do_ and who I do it _with_… " His tone is clipped, controlled.

Jim closes his eyes and for a minute he can pretend that none of this is really happening. They're not fighting about him moving on. And Pam is not, once again, making him get his hopes up. Because, really, what does she care what he does when he's away from the office?

He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What do you want from me?"

She raises her eyes to meet his and they're this amazing blue and for a second he can allow himself to imagine what it would be like to be with Pam always. To fight with her--not like this, not over mean and ugly accusations but over stupid things… And he wonders what it would be like to make up…to hold her in his arms and make love to her while he convinced her how sorry he was for whatever stupid thing it was he did, like drinking out of the milk carton or leaving his wet towel on the bathroom floor or…anything, really. Anything that didn't hurt like this does.

And he shouldn't think these things because Pam is engaged and he's living his little fantasy life in his head while she's still in the real world with her plans and her wedding and her happily ever after.

But there's just something… He can't stop. She's under his skin and in his head and in his fucking bleeding heart.

"God, I don't even… I'm sorry," he says softly.

He's gesticulating wildly—one of his bad habits that he just can't break. And she's looking at him, just looking like she's never seen him before. He takes a deep breath and calms himself down.

"I don't know what I'm saying. I can't…" He shakes his head and there go his hands again… "Look, I just… I can't talk to you about this. Can we drop it? I mean, is that possible?"

"Okay. And I'm sorry. I really am. I know you wouldn't--" She stops, bites her lip. "I'm sorry."

He closes his eyes. He can't look at her now.

"I know, but I can't, okay? I can't do this. It kills me to be like this with you and I…" His eyes snap open and it takes him a moment to focus on her face. "I have to go."

"Go where? It's the middle of the day," she says, concerned.

"I just… I need to clear my head," he says and in two long strides he's at the door.

He reaches for the handle, but Pam's hand covers his. It's warm and soft and familiar.

"Let me go with you," she pleads.

He tilts his head to the side.

"That kind of defeats the purpose."

"Jim," she urges, rubbing his wrist.

"What?"

Her eyes are looking straight into his, begging him just to let it go. Just this one time let them not make a huge deal about this. Forgive her.

"I don't want us to be like this. I don't want to fight with you," she says in a small voice.

From anyone else, he might take that as just an excuse, just something someone says without really thinking about it, like "pass the mustard", but from Pam, he knows she means it. She hates it when they fight just as much as he does. See, the thing is, with Pam, most of the time, not always, but most of the time, he doesn't even have to make complete sentences. They just read each that well. So he can tell when she means something and when she's sorry.

"I know."

"So?"

"So, what?"

"Can I come?"

He rolls his eyes. He thinks, sometimes, that Pam knows exactly how much power she has over him, because she's giving him this _look_. The look that he has never once said no to and he can't turn her away.

And that's the crux of it. She's another bad habit that he just can't break.

"Fine, but you have to navigate. You know how to use a map, right?"

"Uh…," she falters.

"Fine, I'll navigate, you drive," he says, tossing her the keys.

They make it out of the elevator and down onto the parking lot without any casualties. Jim doesn't look at her. He just keeps walking, one foot in front of the other. He's not really sure what she's thinking or feeling, but he's pretty much just a well of confusion.

"Jim? Where exactly are we going?"

"Coney Island."

"Coney Island!"

"Trust me, okay?"

He opens the door for her and she slips into the driver's seat. She's too far from the steering wheel. Sometimes he forgets how small she really is. He laughs softly and reaches to adjust the seat for her. He moves in and he's so close. Close enough to smell her shampoo and feel the heat coming off of her and when his fingers tremble just a little, he accidentally brushes her arm. And he's touching the soft cotton fabric of her shirt but he memorizes the gentle slide across her arm as if he were touching the most delicate part of her.

She turns her head and he realizes that he's just staring at her shoulder and the seat is closer to the steering wheel and he still hasn't moved.

"Sorry," he says and shakes his head.

The walk around the car feels much longer than it is, like each second is ticking by too slow and all he can think is that something monumental is about to happen. When he finally gets into the passenger side he can feel the heat in his cheeks spreading all the way down his neck.

He's silent for a quarter of a mile, until he can't take the silence any longer and flips on the radio. He fiddles with the dials until he finds a respectable song and then he leans back far in his seat and every once in a while gives Pam brief directions.

"You're going to take another right at the next light."

"Okay," she says and does as he says.

"Here we are," he says and points her toward a vacant parking spot.

"And where is here?" she says, looking out the front window for hints.

"Look."

"Coney Island Lunch. Clever, Halpert."

They order hot dogs and Jim teases her about the time she used hot sauce at the office Hot Dog Eating Competition two years ago, when Michael's camaraderie theme was "taking a bite out of the competition."

Pam's picking at her fries and Jim is chewing on a toothpick. They're both too busy worrying about saying the wrong thing that they don't say anything at all.

"Do you ever people listen?" Pam says, breaking the silence.

"Come again?"

"That's what she said!"

Jim rolls his eyes. It's weird how when you work with someone you pick up their sayings and sometimes their mannerisms. It just happens. But Pam choosing Michael to emulate is just wrong on so many levels.

"Uh, Pam, so sad."

"Whatever."

"Okay, so how and what is "people listening"?" Jim says, leaning forward in his chair to hear her above the late-lunch crowd.

"It's like people watching but with sound," she explains, excited.

"Okay. I kinda like just your straight-up traditional people watching."

"People watching is for amateurs. Trust me, you'll like this better."

"So what do we do?"

"We just sit back and listen," she says, matter-of-factly

"It sounds _very_ difficult, but I think I'll give it a try."

Jims sits back in his chair, his eyes trained straight ahead at Pam. She squishes up her face and sticks out her tongue. He follows her back into adolescence and sticks out his own tongue. Pam points to her ear, then at Jim. He gets the message and tries to focus on a conversation amongst all the chatter in the restaurant.

A couple to the right of them catches his eye. He leans a little in his chair and listens in.

"_What are you having?"_

"_The chicken, I think."_

"_Hmm. I was thinking I would have the chicken, but I changed my mind and I think I'll go with the chili dog, with coleslaw on the side."_

"_Sounds good. I'll get that, too."_

Jim scoots closer to the table.

"This is lame."

Pam rolls her eyes and presses her finger to her mouth.

"Shh, just give it a minute."

Again Jim tries to pick out an interesting piece of conversation.

"_I think I want to get something pierced."_

Jim raises his eyebrows.

"Um."

"Jim!" she pleads.

"_Hey, you watch Lost last night?"_

"_Yeah, dude, I can't believe that chick's pregnant!"_

"_I bet the doc knocked her up."_

"_That makes no sense!"_

"_When does this show ever make sense?"_

"I had that episode saved on TiVo and now I'm spoiled," Jim informs her, mock-annoyed.

"If you're not going to take this seriously--"

"No, come on, I will."

Jim picks a new target. There's a young couple in a booth. They 're obviously in love and there's something almost sweet about them. In another lifetime…

"_We've been seeing each other for a long time and…"_

"_Yes?"_

"Oh, my God, I think he's going to ask her to marry him," Pam says, brining her hand up to cover the inevitable squeal.

"No, I think he's going to ask her to pass him the ketchup."

"We shall see," she says, challengingly.

"_I was just…Um, I'm trying to think of the right way… Whew, this isn't easy."_

"He's breaking up with her," Jim says, smugly.

"No. He's going to ask."

She's positive. There is no doubt in Pam's mind that they are witnessing an engagement. Jim can see the almost innocent excitement taking hold of her.

"For the ketchup."

"No, for her hand."

"And what is he going to do with her hand once he gets it?"

"Funny."

"_So, um…uh, would you, uh…pass me the salt?"_

"Ooh, so close!"

"Shh. He's nervous. That's so sweet."

Jim's focus remains on Pam, even when her attention shifts back to the couple. His eyes land on her hands folded on the table. The shine of the diamond on her ring finger shatters him back to reality and the pit of his stomach drops.

"So, hey, how did Roy propose?"

The second the question is out of his mouth he regrets it. Way to ruin the fun, Halpert!

Her head snaps back to him.

"Oh, um."

He frowns.

"Was that--"

"No, it's okay," she says, unconsciously twisting the band of the ring on her finger. "He, um—Wait, do you really want to hear this?"

It's not like he can back out now. He really doesn't want to hear all the saccharine details. But Pam's his friend and he can't… He has to be supportive.

"Yeah, I do."

"It's not some great story. Not like--"

"Over burgers at Coney Island lunch?"

"Yeah," she answers, with a note of appreciation.

"Go ahead."

"Well, it was his brother's birthday. We went for the party—he lives in Olyphant with Roy's mother. Anyway, it was after dinner and everyone was just relaxing when he just kind of blurted it out. He gave me his grandmother's ring. It was simple, nice. It wasn't… It was nice."

"Oh."

What else can he say?

She looks down and laughs tightly.

"Yeah. You know, it's nothing like what little girls dream about. I mean, that's why they're called dreams, right?"

She takes a deep breath and meets his eye, as if looking for confirmation. They lock eyes and hold.

"Sure."

The sound of clapping breaks the spell and Pam looks away. Her cheeks are a bit pink and her eyes are a little glossy.

Jim clears his throat.

"I guess she said yes."

"Was there any doubt? Look at all the people in here."

"What do you mean?"

Pam shakes her head. She searches through her purse as if looking for the right answer. She comes up with a jar of lip gloss instead.

"Oh, nothing. It's just…I mean she couldn't exactly say no with an audience, could she?"

Jim watches her eyes dart around the room and flicker as if trying to fight back tears. But that must be his imagination.

"I guess not."

They're silent for a while, until the waitress brings them another round of drinks. They both mumble a "thanks" and look away from each other. Jim concentrates on the music coming from the old–fashioned juke box in the corner. He picks a spot in the room and concentrates on it as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. The minutes tick by slowly. One song ends and another begins. And Jim thinks about how half of their conversations are made up of the things they don't say.

"Iced tea makes me pee," Pam announces, breaking the tension and smiling. Then, presumably, realizing what she's just said, she giggles to herself. "I didn't mean for that to rhyme."

"Sure, you didn't," Jim says, relaxing back in his chair. He stretches out his legs and accidentally hits her foot under the table. "Sorry."

"No problem," she says and takes another sip of her drink, sucking on the straw until the liquid is drained from the glass and all she's sucking up is air.

"Okay, I think you've had enough," he says and pushes the glass away from her.

It reminds him of that night at Chili's and the whole "second drink" debacle and the way she kissed him. It feels so similar that it's almost physically painful. He loosens his tie and undoes the first two buttons of his dress shirt. The air suddenly feels very thick and cloying.

"I'm not drunk, Jim," she says, very seriously, like he's going to disagree. He can't help laughing. Just the way she came out with it… It's like she's channeled Kelly. If she starts talking about everything in the world that is cool, he might have to reconsider his little "crush."

"Ok-ay," he says, slowly. "It's just, I don't think it's so much the iced tea as it is the vast quantity of iced tea you've drank--and you know, the alcohol might be a factor, as well—that's making you have to, uh, go pee."

He tugs off his jacket, setting it on the back of his chair and begins rolling up his sleeves.

"And I don't even think there's actual iced tea in one of those Long Island things," he says, almost as an afterthought.

"Still doesn't change the fact that I have to pee."

"Thanks for, you know…sharing."

"Look," she says, pointing to the ladies room, "there's a line-up for the bathroom. How does that make sense? It would be _so_ much easier if I were a man."

"Uh, how?"

"Uh, 'cause then I could pee standing up, duh!"

"Oh, okay. Yeah. I just…I have nothing to combat that statement right there."

"Don't get all weird. It's just…you never see a line-up for the men's room."

"So then use the men's room."

She wrinkles up her nose.

"Gross."

"You didn't seem to have any trouble with it a few months ago."

"That was different," she says, softly.

Jim nods.

"I guess I better get in line. Wish me luck. I'm not sure if I can hold it."

"Wait, hang on," he says, standing, and gently tugs on her arm just as she's stepping past him. Suddenly she's very close to him and he's looking down into her eyes and maybe she is just a little drunk, but she's looking right back without apology.

"Uh--Um," he stutters and releases her from his grasp. His hand hovers in the air without purpose, itching to touch her bare skin, until he finally shoves it into his pocket and squelches all urges to do just that.

Grabbing his jacket off the chair, he rolls it into a tight ball and hands it to her.

"And this is for…?"

"Shove it under your shirt," he whispers against her ear, his lips just barely brushing her temple.

For a minute she does nothing, just stands there, frozen. When he steps back and looks at her, she finally snaps out of it. He draws his eyebrows together, concerned. "Pam?"

"What? Oh. Um, sorry. Why, um, why am I doing this?"

"Do you honestly think they're going to let a pregnant woman stand in line to use the bathroom?"

A light flickers behind her eyes and he sees that she gets it. She shakes her head and he nods. They have a silent argument, until one of his hands reaches for hers and his other, very carefully, lifts her shirt away from the flat expanse of her stomach. He looks over his shoulder to make sure they don't have an audience before he guides her hands and the suit jacket closer and closer to her stomach, until the back of his hand touches the smooth skin of her hip and she lets out an inaudible gasp.

And he really wants to kiss her.

He doesn't. Instead he folds her shirt back over the bundle that is now extending from her stomach and takes a step back to admire her.

He's not quite prepared for the vision that greets him. Pam does, indeed, look like she is pregnant. And it takes him a moment to swallow past the lump in his throat. Because one day she will be pregnant with someone else's child and he'll have to watch it all happen.

Pam's cheeks are flushed and her breathing is just as uneven as his. There's a lock of hair that has escaped the thing she uses to tie it up with, and moving it back in place is the only thing he can think of doing. But he shoves his hands in his pockets making a pre-emptive strike.

"You're _so_ going to hell."

"What? Oh, yeah, I know. The stuff I've done to Dwight alone should guarantee me a spot."

She smiles, spins around, holding her middle and arching her back. She looks over her shoulder and winks. "I'll probably see you there."

He laughs and watches as person-by-person she makes her way to the front of the line and into the bathroom. Once she's out of sight, he sinks into his chair and further loosens his tie.

They decide it's best to wait until they get outside before Pam "gives birth" to his jacket, but it makes the next couple of hours torture. Somehow they lose track of the time as they reminisce. When it starts to get dark, they decide it's probably time to go. Everyone in the office will have to wait until tomorrow to lecture them. And by everyone, they mean Dwight. Jim can almost hear the interrogation already.

Jim insists on paying their bill, even when Pam reaches into her purse for a twenty. He awkwardly folds the money in her hand and tells her she can pay next time. They suck on complimentary mints as they head back to the car, debating on the merits of cinnamon as apposed to peppermint. Once they're far enough away, Pam hands him back his jacket. It's warm and it smells like women's perfume as he drapes it over his shoulders and fits his arms through the openings. He wonders, distractedly, if she saw him smelling the lining.

Jim gets behind the wheel this time. Sober enough to drive and buzzed enough to reach across to grab her seat belt and buckle her in place.

"Safety first, Pam," he says and it comes out a little husky.

This time he makes no excuse for their closeness. Her eyes sparkle when she looks at him and the pit of his stomach drops. His grip tightens on the wheel and he laughs it off.

"Can we just drive around for a little while?" Pam asks, sitting a little sideways and resting her head on the corner of the seat so she's looking at him.

"Sure," he says.

It seems like they drive for hours as they circle around Scranton, talking about their favourite places and how this town is different or the same compared to the ones they grew up in.

It's weird, but for the first time, he feels like he's really getting to know Pam. He always knew there were sides to her that he knew nothing about, but, right now, outside of the office and without the scrutinizing eye of their co-workers and the cameras, he sees the lighter side of her, the side that he's only gotten glimpses of over the years. And he knows, that all the planning he's done, all the months of separating himself from her, have been for naught, because he's just as in love with her as he's ever been, if not _more _so.

"You want to go somewhere?" he says, looking at her when they hit a stoplight.

"Sure," she says. No hesitation.

When they pull up to Steamtown's National Historic Site, he still hasn't really formulated a plan. The place has been closed for hours, but lucky for them Jim just happens to know which door has a busted lock. And since, in all the years since he's lived here, Scranton's budget hasn't allotted the hundred bucks it would cost to fix the door, he's pretty sure they'll be able to get in.

He gets out of the car first and sprints around to the passenger's side before Pam even has her door open. He opens it for her with a cursory bow and laughs when she calls him a dork. She does, however, take his hand when he offers it and lets him drag her around to the other side of the site. When he lets go of her hand, his own hand feels cool and clammy and he hopes that she doesn't realize he's actually nervous. He feels like a fifth grader, sweaty palms and schoolboy crushes included.

"Now, just stick close and no sudden movements. Harry tends to get a little trigger happy," he whispers, as he trudges forward.

"What!" she says and grabs hold of his arm, yanking it hard enough for him to wince.

"Relax, I'm kidding. Harry retired three years ago."

Pam rolls her eyes, but doesn't let go of his arm.

"This is insane!"

"It is, a little," he says smiling back at her.

"Are we really breaking in?"

He's not sure if there's excitement or fear in her voice. Maybe it's a little of both.

"Sort of. If you want to call it that. See, technically, we're not breaking in if it's already open."

"This is illegal. We could get arrested."

If he tells her she sounds a little like Angela right now she'd probably hit him, so he doesn't take the risk.

"Not likely. A buddy of mine is head of security. If we get caught--"

"What do you mean "if we get caught," Jim?"

Her eyes are wide and he wants to laugh at the expression on her face, but he also wants to pull her close and hold onto this moment. Just…hold it so tight in his hand so that it will stay with him forever. She doesn't even know.

"Calm down, Beesley," he says, shaking his head.

Suddenly she stops. Her lips slowly curl into a smile.

"Hmm. This is something I didn't know about you."

"What's that?" he says, distracted as they come to the door that will lead them inside.

"You're a rebel, Halpert."

"Yeah, me and James Dean. Total rebels."

She laughs and then covers her mouth to block the sound.

"I think I like it," she tells him, smiling mischievously.

"Come on, Rebel Without a Cause."

Pam slips inside right behind him and when he stops to check for noises she runs right into his back. Her hands grapple with his clothes in an attempt to steady herself and something primal stirs deep inside him. Because of their vast height difference, when her hands reach out for something solid they land dangerously close to being below the belt. Thankfully she gets her bearings and they avoid disaster, but not before he feels her warm fingers burning through his clothes and making him feel a little off-kilter.

"You okay?" he whispers in the darkened alleyway.

"Yeah, sorry," she answers back.

He's too frazzled to say anything else on the subject so he lets it drop.

The place isn't lit well and navigating in the dark isn't as hard as one would think. There's a soft glow coming from the few lights still on, creating a very nice atmosphere. If he were more optimistic, he'd even call it romantic.

Jim takes them on a walking tour of all the old trains, explaining to Pam the brief history he knows about most of them, he fudges the rest, but she doesn't call him on it.

"Let's sit."

"In there?" she says, pointing to a trolley car.

"Sure, why not."

She shrugs and holds out her hand for Jim to help her into the car.

Jim takes the seat across from her and rubs his sweating palms off on his dress pants.

"So, listen--"

"Jim, before you say anything I just want to apologies for the way I've been acting lately. Especially today. What I asked… It was rude and inappropriate and I'm sorry."

For a second he's speechless. He opens his mouth to speak and nothing comes out. And then he can't think of anything to say except for how he feels. But he can't actually tell her because this will all go away and he just wants to hold on for a little while longer. So he says nothing at all and just gives her a nod of understanding. That's really all she wants him to say…or not say. Whatever. It's just his imagination that there's something pleading in her eyes and that when her hand lands on his knee to still his nervous movements, she doesn't remove it right away.

They talk for a little while about nothing, until the need to explore takes hold of them again.

They pass a tourist stand and Pam picks up a toy train and makes little choo-choo noises at him like he's her five-year-old brother.

"Very mature," he chastises, but she's not listening. She's left the train on the counter and is busily flipping through maps and books and fondling tacky mugs and shot glasses.

Jim leans against the stand and watches Pam just being herself, completely unguarded. His stomach does these little flips when she looks at him, holding these gaudy earrings next to her ears, smiling big and bright.

"What do you think?"

"They're totally you. Yeah, the little gears and, um, engine totally brings out your eyes."

"Thank you," she says, laughing. The earrings get put back and after a little more nosey exploration, Pam sets her sights on something else.

"We should take our picture, so we'll always remember this."

"We don't have a camera. And it looks like they're fresh out of disposables," he says, pointing to the empty display.

"Come with me."

She takes his hand and pulls him along. He doesn't pay attention to where he's going, just trusts her to lead him. He watches her fingers twitch against his palm and all he can think is how perfectly her hand fits inside of his.

Destination found, Pam drops his hand. The loss immediately produces a dull ache in his chest.

They've stopped in front of a photo booth. It's one of those kitschy ones most often seen in malls and carnivals.

Pam searches for the cord and, once found, plugs it in. The ancient machine flickers to life and her face lights up.

"This is awesome," she says, in a quiet voice. "It's like a family tradition to take really cheesy photos every time we go somewhere new and touristy. I swear I have albums full of stupid pictures from trips when I was a kid."

"I'd like to see those some time. I think it's only fair I see pictures of you being a dork, since I did kind of let you see my high school yearbook photo," he says, his voice just as hushed.

"Maybe. We'll negotiate the terms later."

That sounds awfully flirty to him.

Jim steps closer to the machine and deposits three dollars into the slot. He ducks, trying to maneuver his way into the small space. There's a faded picture of a train track that exemplifies cheese behind the seat and a blue curtain. When he reaches to pull the curtain, Pam grabs his hand to stop him.

"Leave the train tracks, okay? I just…I want to remember it just like this."

Pam is still hovering outside of the booth as Jim tries to make himself comfortable on the low and lone stool.

She bites her lip.

"Can I…?"

"What?"

Her eyes shift and suddenly he knows what she's trying to ask. The only way they're going to both fit is if Pam sits on his lap.

"These are a lot smaller than I remember," she says, stalling

"Yeah, it's going to be a tight fit. Here," he says and reaches his long arms out toward her. He places his hands on her hips, gently pulling her into the booth and onto his lap. It's awkward for half-a-second until she relaxes against him. She loops her arm around his neck and he can't help looking at her.

Their noses are practically touching and when they both shift at the same time, their heads collide. Jim feels Pam's cool hands lightly rubbing his forehead.

"Oh, God, you're going to have a big goose egg. I'm _so_ sorry."

"It's okay," he says, because he can't get anything else out.

Her fingers are still touching his skin, exploring the lines of his forehead. It's almost impossible not to wince when she touches him just above the eyebrow. The pain has long faded, but he knows the skin there is still an angry red and a little puckered. It hurts, though, and not in a physical way.

"I told you you'd have a scar," she whispers, bringing her fingers down to stroke the stubbly skin of his cheeks.

His eyes lock with hers and he has to fight the urge to mimic her actions. Just as he's about to respond a bright light floods their small cocoon-like structure and blinks brightly in front of them. He's temporarily blinded. But his hearing is working just fine and Pam's giggles bring his smile to the surface.

"If you're not quiet, they'll be using these pictures for our mug-shots," he says, mock-sternly, in an attempt to control the situation, but it just makes her laugh harder.

The flash fills the space again and again and again until their three dollars are spent and Pam's holding her stomach from laughing so hard.

He doesn't realize how tightly he's clinging to her until she squirms out of his grasp and situates herself in front of the booth, waiting for their photos to drop.

By the time he collects himself enough to stand next to her, she's already holding the photos in her hand and smiling down at the strip of four pictures.

He looks at them over her shoulder and he hears her little sigh of contentment.

"These are great," she says and hands them to him for a closer look.

"So which one can I have?"

"You don't get any," she teases.

"Um, okay, except I did pay for them."

"And I appreciate that, but these are going in one of my photo albums," she says and snatches them from him, skipping toward the exit sign where they snuck in to begin with.

Jim follows her out, shaking his head.

In the car, Pam is still clutching the photos against her chest. For a minute, Jim wonders if she's drifted off as he makes a right and catches a glimpse of her closed eyes. Her head lolls to the side and she blinks her eyes open.

"I haven't had this much fun since—Actually, I can't remember the last time I had this much fun. Thanks," she says, sleepily.

"No, thank you. For tagging along."

"Oh," she says, sitting upright, now fully alert.

She turns her head to look out the window and Jim chuckles.

"I'm kidding."

Pam sticks her tongue out at him. She gives the pictures in her hand one last look before stuffing them into her purse.

"We, uh, we should probably get back or whatever."

"Wow, it's really late," she says, checking her watch.

Jim clears his throat.

"I guess I should get you home."

"Actually…"

"What?"

Her whole posture shrinks.

"I'm not…" she starts and then shakes her head, "I'm kind of staying with a friend right now."

The information floors him and it takes great strength to keep his composure. What does this mean? Are Pam and Roy fighting? Have they split up?

No.

He can't get his hopes up like this again.

He can't

It doesn't have to mean anything. He read somewhere, once, that sometimes engaged couples that live together live apart in the months before the wedding to…why the hell couldn't he remember? There was an article about it. He remembers reading it, but the details…they elude him.

Trying to make sense of it proves impossible and a coherent response is unlikely. Instead he babbles something. He's not even really sure what he's saying.

"Oh. I-I didn't know. Do you want to…you know, talk, about it?"

"Not tonight. Maybe another time. We should probably just… Thanks, though."

"Yeah, no. Okay."


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Bad Habits (3/3)

Rating: PG-13

Author: Heath07

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, etc.

Summary: Sequel/Companion to Maintaining the Lie. Pam/Jim What happens after?

Notes: Most of the stuff about Scranton is inaccurate. Sorry to any Scrantonites.

**Part 3**

* * *

****

The minute Jim gets to work, blurry-eyed and in major need of strong coffee, he's dragged into a meeting with Jan and Michael. They both avoid looking at each other so much that it becomes obvious and Jim can feel the tension bursting to escape from the room.

"As you know, most of the candidates took an aptitude test," Jan states, in her usual calm and cool manner. Sometimes Jim gets a little creeped out by her professionalism, like he forgets that he works in an office and there are people that actually give a crap if they're doing a good job or not.

Jan is smiling at him and from the corner of his eye he can see Michael staring intently at Jan and all Jim wants to do is run out of the office, head for the elevator and never look back.

There's some weird, silent battle between his two superiors and the only way this could be any more uncomfortable is if Dwight was also in the room poking him in the eye with needles.

"Anyway, I'm very pleased to tell you that you scored much higher than most of the other applicants."

Jan is smiling at him again and it's like she's waiting for him to explode with glee, like he's supposed to react a certain way, but it's more like some private joke that he doesn't know the punch line to.

"Um, great. What does that mean, exactly?"

"We want you to come to New York and work for corporate. You'd have your own office, a secretary, an upgraded health care plan, and, of course, a salary boost."

Jim sits back in his chair, trying to absorb what she's just said.

"Wow, that's, uh, that's a really great offer. Can I have some time to think about it?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, this is a-mazing!" Michael says, jumping out from behind his desk and clapping Jim on the back. "I just knew one day a protégé of mine would reach their full potential. Come on!"

"Michael, what are you going to do?" Jan says, sternly.

"Just a little morale boost."

"Michael, really--"

"Okay, so big news!" Michael interrupts, all ready leading Jim out of his office. Jan follows them out, her arms crossed over her chest. "Big news, everyone! Listen up!"

Michael goes on to explain about Jim's job offer and how instrumental he was in fostering the career of one of their own. Blah blah blah.

Suddenly there's cheap champagne from Michael's private stash in his desk drawer and congratulations are being tossed around.

Jim's uncomfortable with all the positive attention. From the corner of his eye, he sees Pam walk in, late, and he smiles at her.

The first moment he gets, he slides away from Michael and maneuvers himself closer to Pam, listening closely to her conversation with Kelly and Angela. From what he can tell, she doesn't know he's moved. He just needs an opportunity to get her attention so they can slip away, undetected, and he can tell her about the job offer himself.

"What's all the fuss?" Pam says.

"Jim, like, got offered a job in New York! I just think that is like, the greatest thing that could have happened to him! I'm so going to miss him, though. Jim is like this really great listener. But New York! Can you even believe it? There are so many cool places there! New York never sleeps. I totally believe that because this one time my friend and I went there to a nightclub and, seriously, by the time we were all tired out from dancing and ready to go home, everything was still open! And just imagine all the places there are to go shopping. Like Bloomingdales and--"

"And he's taking it?" Pam says, turning away from Kelly who is still jabbering on about the shopping district.

"Looks that way," Angela says, pointedly.

"I—I have to go."

And suddenly Pam is moving to the exit and Jim is trapped between Kevin and Creed and he can't follow.

Jan pulls him to the side.

"Jim, really give this some thought. Can you say this is honestly what you want for the rest of your life? You're wasting your potential here."

"Yeah, okay, thanks," he says, distractedly, before he's being pulled off into the opposite direction.

* * *

He's debated, analyzed, scrutinized, overanalyzed and come to the conclusion that he can't take the job in New York. It would be a quick fix, but it wouldn't solve anything. It might temporarily make the whole "Pam situation" go away, but it wouldn't make it better. Nothing would get resolved by running away.

He takes a beer out of the fridge, grabs the portable phone off the kitchen counter and dials Jen's number.

Breaking up with her is easier than he thought it would be.

When there's a knock on the door he's not expecting anyone and so when he opens it, he literally gasps when Pam in on the other side.

She has showered, her face is scrubbed clean and anyone looking at her would be able to tell that she has been crying.

"Hi," she says.

"Hey," he returns.

"So, uh, I heard you were leaving."

"Maybe. I haven't decided yet," he says, a little hostile.

"Oh," she says and looks down at the welcome mat under her feet.

"Want to come in?" he says and holds open the door.

"Yes," she answers, sounding relieved. She ducks under his arm and walks past him into the living room.

"Where's, uh, where's your roommate?" she says, looking around.

"Sleeping," he answers shortly. "Want something to drink?"

She appears to think about it for a few seconds and then shakes her head.

"No. No, I'm okay."

"Wanna sit?"

"Um…" She looks around, indecisively.

"Not a hard question, Pam."

He knows he's being harsh, almost cruel, but there's something inside him that is taking a stand. He can't just let her control his life like this anymore, even if she has no idea she's doing it.

He takes the cap off his beer and has a long pull. There's nothing like a little liquid courage to give him strength.

Pam begins to pace. He tries to follow her with his eyes, until he gets a little dizzy and gives up.

Finally she stops. Turns.

Her hands are pressed tightly together, right over left and clutched to her chest.

"Jim, if you left, I wouldn't have anyone to talk to."

He lets out a small chortle. Because what she's saying is beyond funny. Doesn't she see the humour behind her words? Jim decides to enlighten her.

"You'd have Roy."

"But it wouldn't be the same," she says, very softly.

He sees the vulnerability behind her words. The connection between them flares brightly and he can't keep up this act. He sighs deeply.

"I guess not."

She takes a few steps closer, so they're not quite touching, but if he reached out and she reached out, just a little, they would be.

"Can we go to your room?"

He closes his eyes and swallows.

"Why?" he says, tentatively, afraid of her answer.

Time ticks by. Seconds turn into minutes. And when three minutes have elapsed, she answers. She reaches out and takes his hand.

"Just…because."

"Okay."

She leads them upstairs, never once letting go of his hand. He can feel himself beginning to sweat as uncertainty and doubt take hold.

"I like your room."

"Yeah?" he says, following closely behind. He examines his room as if never having seen the space before.

"Yeah. It feels like you."

She drops his hand and he just stands in the middle of the room where she left him to explore her surroundings.

She pulls open his closet door before he has a chance to stop her. Reaching in, she pulls out the ugly busted cast he's kept tucked away.

"What made you keep this?" she says, examining her drawing. Her fingers trail every line wistfully and he has to look away.

He takes a deep cleansing breath.

"I just did. I--"

He doesn't get to finish because she presses her body against his and pulls him into a kiss.

Her lips are warm and searching and her hands are winding their way under his shirt.

"_Jim_," she whispers and her voice is thick with tears.

He pulls away as soon as he realizes what's happening.

"I can't," he says and wipes his mouth.

He could sink into her; drown in a sweaty pile of limbs and passion and desire. But he wants _more_. He wants _all_ of her. He wants the beautiful parts, the laughter and the joy; and the ugly parts, the parts everyone hates about themselves, so he can take them and love them and make them beautiful; and he wants the parts she never lets anyone see, the bold truths and quiet revelations. He wants her to show them all to him.

He wants it all.

Sometimes he thinks he's hiding the fact that he's a man when he's with Pam. Like he's always playing it safe and she forgets that he has needs. That he would take her up on any offer—pin her to the wall, kiss her until neither one of them could breathe, touch her everywhere, thoroughly and carefully, move his large hands up her thighs and then…

He'd do those things right now if he didn't love her so goddamn much. Because Pam's not ready for everything he needs or wants or hopes for. She's not ready to have a passionate night of lovemaking and then stay around afterwards while he holds her and lets his fingers explore the softness of her skin, until she falls asleep under the relaxing rhythm of his touch. She's not ready for that. And if he lets this continue she'll spook and run and everything he's ever wanted will go up in smoke just like that fucking cheese sandwich Ryan almost burned down the office with so long ago.

"What?" she says, self consciously touching her bottom lip.

"Is this because I'm leaving or do you--"

She drops her hand and takes a step back.

"So you are going then?"

The silence stretches.

"Jim?"

"No."

"No what?"

"No, I'm not leaving. Does that change things?"

"No. I--"

"Have you broken up with Roy?"

He has to turn this around on her. If she knew how much he wants her, how she leaves him shaking…

"I thought I ha everything figured out and then… It's…complicated."

"Then I can't. I can't be that guy for you. I'm just not…it's not who I am."

"I know. I know that. And I don't even know why I did that. No, that's a lie. You're in my head. And I don't mean, like, I'm hearing voices and you're one of them. I mean, I can't stop myself from…from, I don't know, thinking about you and what my future would be like…with you. I know it's wrong. And I know I shouldn't be telling you this, but you're my best friend and there is no one else and I know what all this sounds like. Maybe it's just wedding jitters like everyone says, but--"

"Please."

"I think I--"

"Please, just don't. Don't finish."

"Jim," she says and it comes out husky. When her hands brush his a shiver runs down his back.

"I can't. You have no idea how much I want to. But I can't. So you have to go."

She takes a step back and her eyes turn dark.

"I need you to go," he says, softly, resisting the urge to pull her close and to do all the things he's been thinking about for the past three, almost four, years.

"Please, go."

She nods her head, unable to take her eyes off of him and backs up until she hits the door.

He leans over her, so close he can smell her shampoo and feel her breath sporadically on his chest.

He reaches to open the door for her, but she doesn't go, she holds onto him tightly and she's shaking and maybe crying, just a little.

His forearm is wrapped around her in an instant and he pulls her in close. He can feel where his skin is touching her skin where her shirt has ridden up and it's too much sensation and not enough all at once.

"Jim, I think I--"

"Shhh." He silences her and gathers the strength to open the door. "I'll bring you home."

She nods against him, but doesn't meet his eyes.

* * *

The next day they don't talk about what transpired the night before. They simply set their sites on Dwight. He's got a cold and after incessantly asking him how such a thing was even possible considering the Schrutes never got sick, they switched his herbal tea with the drowsy kind of NeoCitron and watched as he fought the sleep that finally claimed him twenty minutes ago.

Things are tense and Jim finds it hard to make eye contact with Pam.

The day drags on and when five o'clock rolls around Jim's relieved to go home and think about things without the constant distraction the office provides.

* * *

Things start to get better at work. The tension, always there, starts to recede a little into the background. Still, sometimes Jim wonders when his life became like a soap opera.

"So, what's up?" Pam says, as she casually passes by Jim's desk.

His attention wavers from his computer screen. "Uh, not much. I just convinced Dwight to apply for his unicorn hunting license. Other than that..."

"You must be really bored." She giggles.

"Yeah, that's putting it mildly."

"Well, maybe--" she starts and then bites her lip.

"What?"

"It's just…maybe you're not being challenged enough. Maybe if you took that job…"

Jim swivels around and waits for Pam to look him in the eye. "Do you want me to take it?"

"No. I just think…maybe it will make you happy."

"I'm perfectly happy doing what I'm doing."

"Are you?"

She doesn't wait for his response and he's stuck watching her retreating figure as she heads into the kitchen.

* * *

It's a Saturday when Pam comes to his house, soaking wet, standing out in the rain with the ugliest pair of yellow galoshes he's ever seen. And, God help him, he can't breathe.

"Hey, what's going on?"

"I broke up with Roy."

The shock, the pure and utter shock, can't be wiped away from his face.

"Oh. Uh…come in. Come in."

He feels like an idiot, standing in the doorway, watching as she drips all over the hardwood floors.

"I'll, uh, I'll be right back."

The walk to the linen closet is not an easy one. All the thoughts in his head roll together and refuse to coagulate. He picks a big fluffy light green towel and hurries back to his guest.

"Here," he says and tries to hand it to her. When she doesn't take it, he drapes it over her shoulders and rubs his hands up and down her arms to stave off a chill.

"I feel surprisingly light. Is that weird? I mean, it seems weird."

Jim's not really sure what to say, so he doesn't say anything. He guides her to the couch and helps her sit down, keeping the towel wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

Pam lets her head fall to the side and gently wipes the side of her face. Jim pulls her closer, feeling how cold her skin is.

"Pam?"

"I'm sorry. I'm always doing this to you," she answers, softly.

"Doing what?"

"Crying on your shoulder," she says, laughing and crying at the same time.

Jim smiles.

"That's what it's there for. See, right there, that part totally was made for crying on."

He holds her eyes until a smile slowly forms on her face.

"Are we alone? Your roommate?"

"He's at his girlfriend's house."

"Oh."

"But, uh…we're not alone."

"Oh, I-I didn't-"

Pam tries to stand, but Jim holds her tightly.

"Relax, it's not what you think. Sasha--Toby's daughter—she's upstairs, asleep." Pam looks at him in confusion. "Yeah, I um, I'm babysitting," he further explains.

Okay, so he's really lame. He has to be for staying in on a Saturday night to baby-sit, right? It's for a good cause he assures himself.

"Oh."

"Yeah, I dunno. I guess Toby and his ex are trying to work things out and, you know, I volunteered my services for the night."

"That's nice. I guess it's never too late."

"Yeah, I guess not."

They're both silent. Before Jim gives himself proper time to think about it, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

"Look, you want to stay here tonight? I doubt the rain's going to let up anytime soon. You can take my bed and I'll sleep on the couch. I'll be the perfect gentlemen, I swear."

Jim can't read Pam's face and he's already chastising himself for being such an idiot when her quiet voice breaks through his mental reprimand.

"That sounds…nice."

"Uh, really?"

It seems almost too easy.

"I don't really feel like being anywhere else."

"Okay, let me just get my stuff from my room and then it's all yours."

"Jim?"

He's halfway up the stairs when her voice stops him.

"Yeah?"

"You don't have to be the perfect gentleman all the time."

He takes a deep breath.

"Tonight I do."

"Okay."

* * *

"Ouch!"

It's the middle of the night and he's not quite awake, but he sprints up and flips on the lights, blinking against the sudden brightness.

"Pam?" he says and takes a step toward her.

"Sorry. I-I was thirsty and I was just going to get some water from the kitchen, but I couldn't see, and I didn't want to turn on any lights because I didn't want to wake you or Sasha up, but then I stubbed my toe and… Sorry."

She's staring at him. He grabs his shirt off the back of the couch and slips in on over his head.

She's wearing his clothes. Of course he knew she would be. He is the one that set them out for her. But still, she's wearing one of his old t-shirts and it's really long on her, but he can still make out the shape of her thighs...

Jim shakes his head, effectively taking all the dirty thoughts out of his head...at least for the moment.

"Here. Sit. Let's take a look at that toe."

"Okay, but if you say we have to call the toe truck, I might have to hit you."

"Noted."

His brain is mush. Officially mush.

Jim takes a second just to look at Pam before he inspects her toe. She has little pillow crease lines on her face and her hair is a mess and she is beautiful. If this isn't love, he doesn't want to be told any different.

"Okay, let's see what we've got here." Ever so gently he touches her big toe and when she hisses and squirms, he can't help but smile.

"Oww."

"Sorry."

"S'okay."

"I think you'll live."

"I don't know, Jim, it looks pretty serious to me."

"Do I need to slip some Tylenol into a pudding cup?"

"Did you just compare me to Michael?"

"No, I was simply asking if you wanted a delicious pudding cup," Jim says, doing his worst Bill Cosby impersonation.

"You're so lame."

"Thank you. You ready to go back to bed?"

"I guess." She shrugs.

"What's the problem, Pam?" he asks, in the same soothing tone he would use with a five-year-old.

"I'm just having a hard time falling asleep," she says.

"Hang on. Come with me, I might have something that will help."

Pam limps up the stairs behind him and Jim has to hide his smile behind his hand.

"Go on and get in bed," he says, still in the same pleasing tone.

Jim makes a big show of going into his closet and pulling out box after box before finding the one he's looking for. Grabbing out what he needs from the box, he walks over to Pam and sits on the edge of the bed, folding a tattered blanket across his lap.

"Now, Pam--"

"No, tell me that isn't what I think it is," she says, sitting up with excitement.

He laughs.

"So I'm sentimental."

She rolls her eyes.

"That's one word for it."

"Look, do you want it or not?"

"Want," she says and reaches for it.

"Hang on, hang on. Before I give it to you, I have some rules."

"Rules? _Seriously_?"

"Oh, yes, Pam. There are rules. Number one: do not, I repeat, do _not_ under any circumstances, lose the blankie. Two: try to keep the drooling to a minimum, okay? And three… actually, I don't have a third rule, but things that happen in threes tend to be more effective. Do you think you can handle it?"

"I will try my best."

"Good enough. Here you go."

She immediately hugs the blanket and it makes Jim laugh. She looks so innocently young and it feels really good to look into her eyes and not see confusion or pain anymore.

He leans over and kisses her forehead chastely.

"Night, Beesley."

"Night."

He's almost out the door when she stops him.

"Hey, Jim?"

"Yeah?" he says, turning around.

"You still having that dream. That, uh, shark one?"

"Oh. No. No, not anymore."

"That's good," she says and readjusts her blankets before settling down. Jim watches for a minute and then closes the door. He rests against the closet door in the hallway and takes a deep breath.

Pam's in his bed and she's in his heart and that's enough for now. He doesn't want to rush it. Rush her. After all, she's his favourite bad habit that he just can't break.

--End--


End file.
